Heavy Metal
by Madison Square
Summary: Rated for language and later slash [snittery and sprace] Try the newest model for the year 2113! The Droyd 3000 can be personalized in appearance, skill, and personality! Warning: Droyds are not suitable for any sort of emotional relationship.


Disclaimer:  I DON'T OWN NEWSIES.  DON'T SUE!

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Heavy Metal

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Chapter One  
  
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Madison Square  
  
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            "The newest model of the year 2213!  The Droyd 3000!  Customized in skill, personality, and appearance!  Purchase one for yourself today!"  Snitch watched the projected hologram of a falsely bright man in a shiny black suit make exaggerated hand motions.  Another person appeared, a young woman with long flowing blonde hair and neon green eyes.  Then her hair turned brown, then black.  She kept changing faces.  The man walked over to her and pressed something at the nape of the neck and she froze.  "Turn the Droyd on and off without hassle!  No interest for six months, thirty day risk-free trial!  The Droyd 3000 is a must-have—"  
            "Off," Snitch said, and the hologram disappeared.  He stepped around the projector, a small black erected cylinder that displayed the moving three-dimensional pictures.  "Time," he said, and a mechanical female voice from inside the projector monotoned, "10:34 a.m."  He sank into the sleek black chair, one of the many that surrounded the projector of the same color, and sighed.  
            School had started two and a half hours ago and would not be finished for five more hours.  Then another one or two hours for after-school clubs and sports.    
            Staying home sick from school was not all it was cracked up to be.  He had already exhausted all the activities he could do.  He had asked Philip, his family's cook-Droyd, to make him breakfast, then enjoyed perfect fluffy scrambled eggs and French toast.  He had taken his electronic notebook, two flat sheets of bright metal that opened into an ultra-slim laptop, and perused the entire library on the internet from the comfortable lounge on his bed.  He had watched countless Hologram soap operas ("Oh, Charles!"  "Oh, Elizabeth!"  "Our love is forbidden!"  "For we are siblings!"  "But not really because you were a test tube baby and I am half robot!").  He could go talk with Anna, their maid-Droyd, he supposed, but she always answered any question with "Yes, Master," or "Yes, of course."  That would be tiring after a while.  
            Snitch slouched lower in his seat and sighed again.  Upon exhale a sudden whooping cough overtook him. _ Hack!  Hack!  HAC_K!  With all the technological advances, the least the doctors could do was invent some cure-all pill that would rid Snitch of this stupid ailment.  
            After five minutes of slouching, Snitch decided that talking to Anna might not be such a bad idea.  
  
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            The bell rang loudly and the class slowly settled into their seats.  The fluorescent lights glared down on the students as they pulled out their electronic notebooks (e-book, for short) and prepared to listen intently to their English teacher, Mr. Denton.  
            "Alright, class.  Settle down." Denton motioned his hands for quiet.  A few girls with long white-blonde hair and big blue eyes towards the back ignored him and kept talking.  They had their plaid skirts rolled up so the hem-line reached mid-thigh, a good five inches shorter than school dress code, to show off their incredibly skinny and long legs.  
            Denton ignored them, as well.  It would be their own faults if they failed the finals.  He adjusted his ridiculous red bowtie and cleared his throat.  
            "Now, class, let's discuss the reading we had last night in _Brave New World_."  The class groaned collectively.    
            A small Italian in the back corner sank his head into the crook of his arm on his table and prepared to catch up on sleep.  He could get the notes later from Specs or Davey, he thought.  A hard poke in his side, however, startled him from dozing off.  
            "Psst!" he heard a voice stage whisper.  "Late night last night, huh, Racetrack?"  He could almost see the face of the voice's eyebrows waggle.  
            "Piss off, Spot," he whispered back, his brunette head burrowing deeper into his elbow.  
            Spot was the resident punk at St. Andrews School for Boys and Girls.  He wore the button down white collared shirt's sleeves rolled up to his biceps, a few buttons unbuttoned underneath his chin, and his plaid green and blue tie hanging loose around his neck.  Instead of black leather shoes, he wore black and white checkered Vans (which, amazingly enough, remained popular throughout the years).  He dressed in such a fashion everyday.  Well, except for his jewelry.  Today's flavor consisted of a black silver studded leather choker around his neck, a matching one around his wrist, numerous silver studs up his ears (and in that funny area between one's chin and lower lip); there was even an earring that dangled from his lobe that looked suspiciously like the antichrist's cross.  After consecutive detentions failed to change his sense of style, the school committee let him be.  
            Racetrack was boring, he thought.  He wore the school uniform properly day after day.  White collared shirt, gray slacks, tie, black leather shoes.  
            Race imagined he heard Spot snicker then whisper, "hangover, too," but he was already drifting off to sleep.  
  
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            The first thing that Racetrack realized was a very intense pain in his chest.  
            "Purple Nurple!" he heard someone scream from far away.  Then fingers twisted his nipple hard through his shirt and he shot from his chair and screamed and cursed and flailed.  When he settled down in his seat again he saw Spot doubled over with laughter close by.  
            "What the hell, man?" he demanded, rubbing at his harmed chest.  
            "Hahaha.  HA!" Spot said.  
            It was then that Racetrack noticed the classroom was empty aside from himself and Spot.  
            "Class ended fucking three minutes ago.  You were drooling all over your fucking e-book."  
            "I was _not_," he snapped, then discreetly wiped away the line of drool from his chin.  
            "Whatever."   
            The Italian looked back at the screen of his e-book and saw an icon in the bottom corner blink.  Oh boy, he had a message.  He doubled clicked on the icon using the built-in mouse pad, and a window popped up.  
            "Sry, cna't pick u up, dear.  Meeting work.  Ride home w/some1, please.  Cna u cook dinner 2?  Love, mom."  
            "What's a 'cna'?" he heard Spot say behind him.  
            " 'Can,' dumbass.  She was obviously in a hurry."  
            "Who are you calling a dumbass, Drool-Face?"  
            "So, do you know anyone who could drive me home?" Race asked, ignoring Spot's previous comment.   
            "Well, Jack's at football; Davey and Specs are at study group—not that you'd want to go home with them, anyway.  Mush and Blink are at theater.  Er…Snitch is sick at home.  That just leaves, well, _me_."  Spot's lips curled in distaste.  "All I've got is my bike."  
            "I wouldn't ride on that thing in a million years."  
            Racetrack clicked his e-book shut and started out the classroom.  Spot followed.  
            "Not that I'd _let_ you get on her," he said pointedly.  "She's my baby."  They strolled down the now-empty halls (no lockers were needed, except in gym; the use of textbooks disappeared as books were downloaded into student's e-books) and into the elevator at the end of the corridor.  
            "Level 3," Spot said off-handedly.  The elevator bell rang and the doors closed.  When they opened again, a parking lot, normally full of the latest and sleekest speedsters, appeared, now empty save for a streamlined black motorcycle and a few of the teacher's cars.  
            Spot took out his keys and jangled them.  He ambled towards the bike with Race in tow.  
            Race had to admit, the machine was _beautiful_.  All shiny and smooth and black and silver and shiny…oh, wait.  Didn't he already think that?  Spot took the black helmet off the handlebars and handed it to Race.  He took it.  
            The other boy put on a pair of black sunglasses (from where, Race didn't know.  As far as he could tell, they had materialized out of thin air) and climbed into the front seat.  He started the motorcycle and the engine revved.  He smiled knowingly at Racetrack and waited.  
            "Oh, no."  Racetrack looked at him uncertainly.  "I am _not_ riding in the back."  
            "Of course you are."  His grin grew.  "You don't know how to _drive_ it, do you?"  
            Racetrack grumbled a bit, and Spot caught phrases like "…fucking hell…stupid prissy…" but paid no mind.  He shoved the helmet over his slicked brown hair and climbed onto the back.  
            After wrapping his arms around Spot's torso, Race grumbled some more.  
            "Let's go visit Snitch, huh?  He must be bored to death," Racetrack suggested.  
            "Sure."  With a rumbled of the engine, they sped out of the parking lot.  
  
==  
  
            Snitch was standing in front of Anna, their plainly beautiful maid-Droyd, trying desperately to make conversation.  She had brown, unblinking eyes, and the same colored hair, cropped short.  In a traditional maid outfit, she could pass as cute.  If one were into that sort of thing.  
            "Do you like it here, Anna?"  
            "Yes, master."  
            "I mean, do we treat you okay?"  
            "Of course, master."  
            "Stop calling me 'master,' please."  Snitch pulled at the collar of his black cotton shirt uncomfortably.  
            "Of course, master."  
            He sighed and walked away towards his brightly lit kitchen to talk to Philip.  He could feel a headache coming.  
  
==  
  
            The highways were skywalk-roads connecting various buildings together.  Full of exhaust fumes and the newest cars, the highways had followed the upward expansion of the buildings, a series of roads at different floor levels.  
            Level 3 was a lower level, closer to the ground, closer to the dirt.  Usually the elite stayed clear of the lower levels, afraid of contaminating their pure white clothing with filth and chemical waste and only God knows what else.  
            Spot and Race sped through the maze of lower level roads, steadily climbing upwards towards the upper classes.  Students at St. Andrews all belonged to at least the upper middle class, and, unfortunately, the parking lot of the school was contained low to the ground.  
            They passed a few cheap restaurants and shops with bright, neon signs, always glowing.  They passed a level of apartments full of rats and mutated bugs.  They passed what they thought was a sleeping boy hunched next to a dumpster on Level 5.  
  
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            The sleeping boy had short, curly brown hair and slightly tanned skin.  His eyes were closed, his legs drawn to his chest, his arms crossed over his knees.    
  
            That night the boy didn't move, didn't think, didn't breathe.  That night the sleeping boy didn't exist.  
  
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End Chapter One  
  
[A/N]:  
  
This fic was partially inspired by the anime Chobits.  It's actually really funny and kinda perverted.  Haha.  
  
Review please!!!!


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